The Homunculus of Dante Brelkovich
by Styg.Underma
Summary: [OC] Exploring the parallel universe from the 2003 anime, which will explain the historical divide between the two worlds early in. Dante's equivalent is a frustrated doctor whose attempts to take control of his life only lead him further into the guiding hand of fate. A legacy is to be passed on, and a cycle is to be repeated. Homunculi are prevalent in lesser forms & greater.
1. Prologue & Introductory Chapter

**This story is a work in progress. It will follow the doctor's son post-transmutation, and will entail his search for his mother's maiden family and his father. The chapters will not be in chronological order, and will not always follow the same perspective. And yes, Dante is the equivalent of Dante. And yes, I know I switched genders. And yes, I know shadow-Pridge ain't '03 accurate, but I give no fucks. It's fanfiction.**

**"Do you know... What God is? God is everything. God is nothing."**

** -Mephistopholes**

**Prologue - The Good Doctor and his Son - 1545 - Bavarian Germany**

**The words they told him rang through his head.**

_A hazy foyer, leading to a dimly lit corridor, the passageway cut off by a curtain._

There was nobody else who could do it. Nobody else who would.

_Beyond the curtain, a kitchen and dining room- messy and unkempt, curtains drawn as to hide the light from the room._

It was inevitable. He would only be able to lessen the outcome if he acted. He was the only one.

_The staircase to the side, leading to a floor above, down a dark hallway and past his personal laboratory. The source of his earthly knowledge. The accomplishment of his research as a man._

The alchemist snapped out of his sleepy daze, his actions dulled down as if it were a hazy dream- a reenactment at best, guiding him down the corridor to the home's library- merely a collection of bookshelves and desks, dedicated to the medical and physical sciences of the world. He felt as if he was being tugged along by an invisible puppet master. The seemingly musky undertone of a growing sickening scent- reflecting the pit in his stomach as he passed tapestry and painting, facing the door to the right as the scent grew strongest.

_Another memory flooded into his mind. A woman lying in a bed surrounded by flaming basins of incense, her once refined and beautiful figure now mangled and emaciated due to that dreaded death. The basins beside her failed to mask the true scent of the room- the scent of death; the scent of the Black Death._

He clasped his gnarled hand around the doorknob, and turned. Before him, under bloodied parchment and scroll, the emaciated and boil-ladened figure of his son.

"_One day, you will find that the world will take from you. But in turn, you must take from it. There is a day in which all debts must be paid," the greatly bearded man whispered to him, arm around his shoulder._

He lifted the body of his son onto his lap, and looked into his eyes. Beyond the destroyed blood vessels around his eyes, his irises still held color.

"So... This is how it shall be?" he muttered to himself. He reached into his inner coat pocket, and caught with his index and thumb a small bottle. Brought before his face, the glow of the dark crimson liquid brought a faint red light against the haze of the room.

**Chapter 1: Rebirth**

"**...and one day you shall see why," the empty, metallic voice whispered inside of his head.**

He felt as if he just awoke from a deep slumber. Every sense of his body was alert, yet still tired and sluggish- seemingly as if he were still asleep. There was no temperature yet he was comfortable- standing upright in a warm, white void. A low ambient noise rang about in his ears, filling his attention with an unavoidable fixation. His attempts to focus were only met with a dreamlike haze that overwhelmed his mind.

"Am I… Am I dreaming?"

"There is a debt to be paid," it said.

"A debt? What… debt?"

"You remember," the voice whispered. The ambient noise grew in intensity, and a sharp pain ran across his temple, which forced him to his knees, as he clutched his head in wincing agony. Far away memories, the last thoughts in his mind suddenly rushed forward in a torrent, bringing a distraction to the pain.

_Before him, a sort of Roman triumphal arch of black stone. The facade contained numerous grotesques- crawling up the pillars on the abutment, and holding up the top on their shoulders. The gateway's doors slowly swing open with a moaning creak, which revealed a black abyss within; fixated in the middle an eye. From within, long black arms with diminutive hands spring forward- latching onto his limbs, head, shoulders- and enveloped him in a cold embrace as it pulled him in. He remembered the sequence that followed. The immeasurable amount of information displayed before him, all of the knowings of the sages and magi of old, and even the primordial knowings of the universe- all in one place. Even though he witnessed only a fraction of this, he felt as if the entire world itself was poured into his head. What he saw was Truth._

"You... This is... Truth? What you showed me? How did I... How did I get here? I couldn't have transmuted..."

"You are dead."

The memory came back to him in an instant. The pinch on his arm. The first cough. The blood in his handkerchief. The sapping of his strength, and the growth of the boils and lesions across his body. The pain and constant agony that was the Black Death as it destroyed his body from the inside out.

He remembered standing over the desk with the last of his strength, looking through the papers and scrolls detailing his father's knowledge of the Stone. It was an impulse. He was not expecting to find anything- the Stone was undoubtedly with his father- off on one of his 'trips' to the west. It was a last dash of hope, not even that- the cruel delusion creeping up on him until he made his realization.

"But then... What is the debt I have to pay? What is left for you to take?"

"You are the one to pay the debt, yet you are not the one who incurred it."

And once again, everything was black.

He felt the warm presence he dreamt of slip away, almost as if he were reaching out towards it and it was slowly moving away from him. The light at the end of the tunnel neared him, and his consciousness sparked forth, awakening for what seemed like the first time, once again.

What he awoke to, however, was not the most pleasant of situations. He was- or rather what he was confined in- was an inferno of crimson, red, and black shapes moving, twisting, and convulsing around him, a constant sound- what seemed to be screaming- filling every orifice of his mind. From beyond the raging inferno before him, he could make out the vague shape of a face looking over him from the side, shaking rapidly, as he struggled to maintain his gaze onto him.

He attempted to speak, but heard nothing as the sounds around him only increased. His memories of the previous events that had transpired remained as fresh as any other, the constant bombardment of these dream-like visions adding to his confusion- forcing him to continuously question whether or not these were simply hallucinations of a near-death mind.

He felt a tug at the center of his being, and felt himself being pulled towards yet another light at the end of a tunnel.

Nikolai took his first breath in what seemed like an eternity, and awoke from his dazed stupor under the parchment around him. He felt a dull ache in his head as well as a distinct ringing in his ears, slowly lifted himself up and sat upright in the hazy study. He began scratching his head and feeling a moment of confusion as he gathered his waking senses.

The bloodied and charred parchment around him were strewn about in messy and hectic piles, countering the once-organized feeling it kept not too long ago. The two incense braziers located near the doorway behind him were smoldering and cold, despite being lit not too long ago. He attempted to recollect the previous moments of before he found himself on the ground- yet found nothing. He felt as though he woke up from a long nap.

Ignoring the warning his father gave him before leaving- never open the windows and shutters for fear of the current wave of Black Death- he ran towards the nearest portal and unlocked the windows, swinging them open. The night air hit his face with a cool gust, and he looked onward at the stars and moon- an abrupt scene contrasting the early rising sun he only experienced an hour or two ago.

Then it hit him. The ringing in his ears turned to roaring, and Nikolai crumpled to the floor, feeling a rush of emotion and thought flood his mind like an endless torrent. The image of the doorway flashed in his eyes, and he remembered the eternity he spent in the endless vortex- the world pouring its knowledge into him. He remembered... the inferno. The roaring, he could hear, was accentuated by faint screams and shrieks of pain, a constant dull moaning filling the background yet still gathering his attention.

The noises he heard brought back images of the trips he took with his father. The faces he saw. The deformities that marked the masses who were doomed- living only to die by the Death. The masks he wore, filled with incense to hide the scent of death and decay, the robes and gloves used to shield his body from any wayward essences that might afflict him. He remembered gathering groups of the ill and condemned into circles, leading them to the slaughter like lambs. He remembered walking the streets of village after village, prodding the lifeless and near-death with their canes, looking for more.

"_Your pain will cease and your affliction will be lifted. You will live on..." his father declared, raising his hands and then holding them together as if in prayer. The circle sparked to life, and the candlestick in the center- mounted with a red circular stone- glowed with a great red intensity. "Your lives will not be wasted, your blood will forge the fleeting image of tomorrow..."_

_The light intensified, and the circle gave off a more deeper purple-crimson glow. The bodies of those collected around the Stone disintegrated in a red flash, reduced to nothing more than specks of energy, and funneled like a vortex to the centerpiece, adding onto the Stone. _

_The transmutation died down, and the inscription on the stone itself faintly shone- a circle, inscribed in a square, inscribed in a triangle, inscribed in another circle- and soon faded away._

"_This is the price we must pay. Through the blood of the damned and ill, we shall give these wretched souls a true purpose in life- and in death- and waste not a single drop of blood," his father told him, glaring emptily at the Stone. After every transmutation, he heard the faint screams echoing in the back of his mind, growing ever so louder the longer he looked at the Stone. After every transmutation, the moaning would fade away ever so slightly until the next gathering was to commence._

Staring at his hands, his vision lightly blackened and his head felt light and dizzy. He got up to his feet, and slowly trudged his way to the doorway, poking his head out into the darkness.

"Father... Father?" he called out into the hallway. The image of his father kneeling before him filled his attention, every sense hoping his father was still there. "Are you... Are you still there?" As he waited for an answer, an alien thought rushed to his attention.

"_One day, you will find that the world will take from you. But in turn, you must take from it. There is a day in which all debts must be paid," the greatly bearded man whispered to him, arm around his shoulder._

"_But when will this day come? What will it take from me?" Dante asked the elder man, who patted his shoulder and gave a rather grim chuckle._

"_Everything. That is the way of the world and that of the cosmos- you will never truly experience love until it is gone. That is why... I entrust you with this."_

"_But... Dmitrov..."_

"_You may now address me as… Father."_

_The thought finished as quickly as it began, and the alchemist stared at the convulsing black mass before him. Blood spurted and flew from the corpse, red sparks flying about. Anything that came from him died quickly- burning up in black ash the instant it hit the ground. The body was destroying itself and repairing itself, preparing the acceptance of the Stone. If the body accepted it, then it truly was fate for this to happen... If it didn't, and the body rejected the Stone... He hoped with every ounce and fiber of his being that it didn't._

_The body let out one final wrench, and stopped abruptly- the screeches coming from the convulsing form ceased, and it appeared to rest- still showing signs of life. The transmutation was complete. His abomination was fulfilled. The sense of shame overwhelmed his mind, everything yelling at the once-proud alchemist to run away. The price he paid to bring his son here... In this form... Was not only his son's very soul- but his father's pride as well._

Pride. The shadow of self that followed one's ego, the very feeling that defines self worth and value- the definitive principle of self-awareness itself. Nothing can live without feeling some rational worth of itself. In order to live properly one must be aware of itself and the world around it- taking in information for the ultimate purpose of filling its own desires and needs. Pride. The blackness that he felt reaching out towards the distant corners of the room.

The ground below him turned jet black and cold. His feet felt... Attached, to what was below him. The extension of himself was as if it were an appendage- a pool of shapeless mass that acted as his shadow, an extension of his true self that seemingly leaked from his body.

He understood what this was; however, he could not completely comprehend how he was in such a state... And how a transmutation could be used in such an effect. His father had transmuted a homunculus- an artificial life-form made through the use of alchemy- and bonded his consciousness back to his mortal body, through the exchange of his own soul- an act that would render him now incomplete. However, the alchemist took the act a step even further, filling in the crucial step unattainable by alchemist- the substitute for the soul: A Philosopher's Stone.

In alchemical terminology, he would be defined as a _Filius Philosophorum_- Child of the Philosopher, a theorized being of 'perfection' that would require the use of the Stone to complete. The empty vessel accepted the substitute, and the energy powering the homunculus would render it biologically immortal- albeit physically vulnerable. Even then, the welling of energy would repair any injury sustained. It was almost as if it were true immortality itself... However, the limit to what could be repaired was with the energy contained within the Stone itself- as soon as the count of souls collected by he and his father ran out, he would perish.

Of course, this was all in theory. He was only applying logic to what would happen should a homunculus bond to a Stone- yet he never heard of such an event occurring, save for the metaphorical account of an Arabian philosopher who recorded a rather odd dream. Despite being versed in biological alchemy, his father Dante never once mentioned the artificial generation of life, nor did he possess many texts- if any- regarding the subject. Despite being considered sinful in its own right, alchemy gave an even worse negative connotation to the creation and development of artificial life through the use of alchemical processes- something which would equate the value of man with God, despite already using the powers of creation for himself. Hypocritical, in a sense, that his father- a man who would shun such concepts and rather work as a doctor saving those who could be saved- would turn from his own beliefs so quickly at the coming of a tragedy.

Despite this, he understood. His mother was the first of his family to fall ill and die- beginning the slow death of his family by striking his sister next through infection until only Nikolai remained, where he would be nurtured and brought up in the life of the physician and alchemist so that the practice may be carried on- as his father told him- and that he shall fulfill his duty in this world as a human. When he would die, his father himself would see no purpose in his life... He would not let something such as this happen...

But why, then, did he turn his only son into such an abomination even in the eyes of other alchemists? He had the Philosopher's Stone... All he needed to do was use its energy to call his son from the other side... Why, then, did his father transmute a homunculus? Was it simple error and shame, did he choose the wrong path on accident?

He understood that even an object of perfection was subject to the ever-present laws of equivalence- in order to fulfill an action, energy and mass must be supplied to complete it- and that the Stone itself required a price to be used, but they had accumulated enough power to perform the transmutation thrice over should they need to. As long as his soul and mind remained on this side of the void, all that was needed to repair the body, and even that required very little energy itself.

What went wrong? he had asked himself. Or did anything go wrong at all?


	2. Chapter 2, Part 1

**After a month's hiatus I return to continue this, I guess. We begin delving into the son's life pre-incident and the conditions leading up to it. Bear with me as I sporadically update this, I will try and add some regularity to this shtick.**

**Chapter 2: The Doctor And His Son**

His childhood was a fog. Blank faces, missing walls and features, and the distorted and alien voices. Nothing was familiar yet it was as he remembered it, however there were details that seemed to haunt him- details that he was unable to forget. His father was a proud man, a somewhat receding black hairline countered by a well-kept beard and mustache that hung off of his gaunt and worn face, with round spectacles fitting on his nose. His mother was fair, with gold-brown hair that reached her back and a calming gaze befitting her blue eyes; her chin and nose were sharp, with a warming smile he was unable to forget. His older sister stood next to him, and over him through much of his childhood until he eventually overtook her in height; she inherited the black hair of her father and the features of her mother, as did he; she kept well to her hair and left it in a ponytail. Like his sister, he kept his hair long- to the length of his shoulders. Dante, his father. Natalya, his mother. Marya, his sister. And he was Nikolai. These were, to him, the indisputable facts.

He couldn't remember much what happened during the first five years of his life; the traumatic witnessing of his mother's death due to the bubonic plague at age three forced him to black out much of his early years, relying on details from his father and sister when they felt necessary. He only knew that he had an extended family, but here is where the people become mannequins and the names fade out.

"We no longer have hold in Russia. Our family has forsaken us," he had remembered his father say at one time soon after his mother's death. As a child, of course, he didn't understand any of this, only that- according to his sister- they would be moving far away and that they wouldn't see their aunts and uncles anymore.

The broken family moved to Southern Germany- Bavaria. There, his father was able to further pursue his career as a court physician- already having ties to this land, where he had completed his education. They lived at the corner of a street, in a large two story home- cluttered with furniture and relics, bookcases and banners. He was largely kept out of his father's study until he was 12, where his father saw fit to begin training him as a physician himself.

According to his father, everything man knew about the medical and anatomical sciences was next to nothing. Years of suppression and loss of text and relevant resources have often led to the forgetting of medical practices, and the hand of the Church often helped to further this. Of course, the little they did know helped tremendously- medical practice was in its infancy, but it was accomplished- they provided a service largely kept only to the noblemen and upper class; medical procedure was often a last ditch effort to save face and kept as a last resort, and- as expected- was a fairly expensive venture. Because of this, the doctor was a rare commodity to be valued mostly for his opinion on the health and miasmas of man and the treatments for these, surgery being the furthest thing from the mind of the patient.

Aside from tending to the ailments of the aristocrats and the nobles, the doctor found work in tending to and observing incidents in which the bubonic plague was involved, a practice largely kept to lower-tier physicians whose educations were likely questionable; however, Dante kept an interest in these events and spent months on end away from home investigating such instances, leaving his children to their own devices. What was well established at the time was that the plague was, when contracted, incurable. Mortality was nearly ensured- survival was, at best, a fluke. It could only be warded away and steps could be taken to prevent contraction, but a cure was, to their knowledge, nonexistent- something which puzzled the growing Nikolai.

His confusion would later be answered to, much to his dismay.

What the Church had taught Nikolai was that one must act for the will of God, and to resist the temptation of Satan. Hubris and the indulgence of one's inner vices led to the ruining of man, and that of his salvation. The older he grew, however, the more detached he became from this philosophy- in correlation to his continued education in medicine and exposure to the nature of the world, he felt more detached from the notion of God or the concept of the guiding hand of the Church altogether. This schism only began to widen when Dante felt it necessary to expose his son to the… _other side_ of his work.

The avalanche came with the death of Marya. She was not a casualty of the plague or influenza, but that of a stomach ailment; a cruel infection that forced her last days to be that of unending agony and strain, that no amount of comfort she may receive in her subsequent death may set right. With this, Nikolai and his father were alone. Dante, the good doctor, had only one heir to continue his name.

"Your grandfather was a wizened elder who sought me out during my education in Germany, and chose to become a sort of mentor for me," Dante had told him. "He had begun in reviewing my current understanding of medical practices and understanding of the sciences of the world. He exposed me to philosophy and thought, in order to show me what man understood to be his relationship to the world. Not that of faith or belief, but of knowing: of truth."

"He had educated you as you did I?" Nikolai asked, drawing a connection.

"In a way yes, but through so much… more. He had showed me not only the world was it is- but what it was, and most importantly, where we are in it. Not physically, but… progressively."

"Progressively?"

"In progress. The progress of man's venture into understanding and truth. Through this he showed me things that our lords and deacons had been taught to oppress blindly for thousands of years. He taught me the true nature of man's relationship to this world."

"The nature of our existence? The idea that they have been teaching to us all of these years?"

"No, it is a corruption of it. A mechanism to steer us away from what they fear will be our own undoing, and to right justification. It is the ability of man to project not only his will into this world, but his essence in order to modify it. His true essence- that of his soul. An act that resembles witchcraft itself and had, at one point, been the tool of great sages and philosophers to unwrap the world itself. The practice of alchemy."

It was this conversation that brought Nikolai to the other side of what he perceived to be his life- a side that marked the beginning of his adulthood and the beginning of true alienation from collective humanity.

His father was not a simple plague doctor cataloging victims and instances of the bubonic plague across Europe. He was a shepherd of man, collecting his sickly flock through the arcane practice introduced to him by his father-in-law, Dmitrov Reznyavic. According to his father, the universal objective of the alchemist was to achieve understanding and manufacture of the magnum opus- the great work- in order to perceive true perfection, and as such has been the great object of desire of many- being synonymous with the search for the Holy Grail or Shangri-La. This work of perfection had long ago been manufactured- an artifact of a forgotten age during a forgotten event, forged using the nameless faces of ancient humanity for an obscure purpose. A remnant of a crisis long ago, resurfaced in the hands of a prominent Russian family and passed to their seemingly chosen heir, Dante Brelkovich, and to be further progressed; through the continued practice of these rituals, he further adds to the power of this Great Work- a blood red stone, one that shone with an uneasing light, one that- if looked upon for too long- would unnerve even the most stern of men. The Philosopher's Stone.

The nature of these rituals and the reasoning behind the further contribution to the power of the Stone were largely unknown to Nikolai, however; he was unsure whether or not his father kept this from him willingly- or if he was kept from it entirely. What he knew was that when he donned the same doctor's hat, robe, and bird's mask as his father, he had crossed into a business where death was capitalized upon- each and every last victim, those who were sick, dying, or already dead and even those condemned to death for one reason or another was subject to becoming incorporated into the Stone's essence.


	3. Chapter 2, Part 2

**Welcome back/hello newcomers. Finally getting into some actual story, as brief as it may be. It'll get longer, I promise; for now, sit tight as I lay the setting and introduce the two essential characters, Dante, and his son, Nikolai.**

**1543, Between East Francia and Germany- the Holy Roman Empire**

Despite the ongoing wars between the Empire and the Protestant states, travel amongst the European realm went relatively unhindered, provided you show no outward signs of clinging to one side or the other in the Reformation. However, he still questioned the lengths they were going for this; regardless of the fact that they were searching for miasma-ridden corpses who haven't yet expired.

Dante stood a good half a head taller than his son, Nikolai. His black, short hair which hung about his forehead in strands reverberated in his son's longer hair- the father bore a weathered face, rounded spectacles, and a beard and mustache about his face, while his son still maintained his young adulthood; showing signs of growing into his build still even at the age of 19.

For the most part, the pair traveled by carriage to the German border and took the remainder by foot into French Lotharingia, seeking the returning tides of the plague as it slowly recedes from our lands with each wave that crashes. His father never explained his sources for finding plague-ridden villages and towns, only telling him to listen to what the people are saying and to read a declaration every once in awhile. Local news, of course, never helped. When he had asked his father where they would find what they were looking for, he simply chuckled.

"Nowhere in particular. We'll know where to go when we're near… Then should be a good time to put on the masks, I reckon."

When they travelled, Nikolai never had a habit of walking by his father's side- only behind him, in an almost conditioned manner as a child to their parent. When donning their bird masks, this reinforced the image: a chick following its mother. When the pair had approached a view of a hill, they saw beyond it a church tower reaching up beyond the distant haze as well as the occasional roof, denoting a village. When they had appropriately neared it, Dante stopped them for a break to rummage their packs for their bird's masks.

"Are you sure about this one?" Nikolai mumbled, fixated on preparing his beak with his mint and dried bergamot.

"We're downwind. If it shifts direction, you'll definitely be able to tell. The miasmas are telltale," Dante answered, already pulling his hood over his head and strapping on his mask.

"And this… they will feel no pain?"

"Once it is done and their vessels are gone," his father began, "it is the only escape I can give them from this affliction. You already understand this."

"I believe I understand your notion of these telltale miasmas, father," Nikolai muttered to himself, realizing his distraction as the wind shifted its stream ever so slightly to bring a wave directly from the town- bringing to him the putrid, sulphuric rot that can only come with decay and necrosis. The rats were having a fast, as it was known.

The village possessed a number of houses- plenty to house 20 or so families, a fair population assuming 5 per household as a median disregarding variations- yet even as they approached the main thoroughfare, only ambient noise, wind, and distant noises- scratching, banging- from within the building clusters; no voices, however, had joined the chorus.

As they made their way through any town, the doctor and his son had a rule: speak as little as possible. Even as plague birds rummaging through a half-abandoned village, who tend to stick out amongst general society as a sore thumb, their accents often led to unnecessary questions and comments. All they were there to do was a job- if any speaking was needed, Dante would do it; he was already adept at German and French was only so behind- at best, he could play a travelling doctor from the Empire.

"Ignore the doors with the red Xs painted onto them. Only corpses or empty residences within- you know what we require," Dante's voice echoed within Nikolai, as he pointed his cane towards one such example and looked to his son to affirm what he meant. The majority of houses as they entered through the thoroughfare were as such- even so, those that were unpainted showed signs of being broken into and already rummaged around in- proving little luck in finding any marks. However, a turn into an alleyway and a half cul-de-sac proved to yield a ring of seemingly untouched, unpainted houses.

The crunching of their boots on the gravel stopped, and the undertone of death and rot from their incensed beaks grew to its strongest. Nikolai turned his gaze away from the ring of houses and towards the back of his father's head- who instinctively looked back and locked eyes with his son, an approval to check for signs of life. Almost as children searching for their favorite sweet in a shop, they took to rubbing the windows with their cuffs and peering in, their visibility dampened by the beak obstructing their view, not to mention the lack of light in the houses themselves. Most had their curtains drawn, or were pitch black within.

"What now?" Nikolai whispered out at a thought, for a moment ignoring his father's rule. Dante turned to look to his son, and readjusted his grip on his cane, bringing the head next to his, and over the door knob. "What are you-" Nikolai began as Dante brought the cane's head down and onto the knob- producing a loud _crack_- as it broke from the wooden frame supporting it in the door.

"I heard a cough," his father said, as he gave the home a good look over before walking in- a signal to Nikolai that he should follow.

The corridor as they entered led to a staircase, and to their right an open room with furniture leading into a kitchen. Laying on a couch was a body- still clinging to life as his chest slowly rose up and down, yet he was visibly riddled with purple and crimson buboes around his neck. Within the kitchen, a female lay on the ground in a fetal position- already deceased. Dante motioned towards the staircase, and Nikolai made his way to the next floor.

Evidently, this was where they kept their bedrooms- from the back right he could see linens or blankets that were hastily drawn out from inside and reaching out into the corridor, faintly lit with protruding light from the curtain of a window at its end. The door across from it lay ajar, and neighboring this another shut door. Nikolai kept looking to the ground for mist but only saw a deepening shadow, the words of his father referencing miasmas repeating in his head- bad air, ominous air. The air of death; silent, sleeping, without thought or breath.

The blanketed doorway revealed a large bed and nightstands- the obvious source of these linens. No shapes or masses dotted this area- dust having settled already over the imprint of a body in the bed, implicating evidence of a resting person leaving the room.

The room opposite it, however, revealed a small desk and study- accompanied with bookcases. This was the home of a literate man. Sitting in the chair facing the desk was a leaning mass- his head slightly askew to look out the window. He showed signs of life, as well as the plague.

"I found another, then…" Nikolai muttered to himself as he stomped on the wooden flooring twice, signaling to his father downstairs. The figure in the chair bore no response, yet he rose and fall only slightly with each phlegm-ridden, pain-ladened breath. Nikolai approached the man- slowly gaining a view over his shoulder, onto the desk before the body. Upon it were books and the occasional torn out page- sitting atop this madness a small framed painting, vertically tall. Depicted within a family- a young man, a noticeably elder woman- his mother- and a man to her left, close behind, and a younger man at the end. Signs of another human with a life; someone else who, at one point, was able to rationally love and reasonably know.

"Fury without, death, is it not?" Nikolai continued as he contemplated this, before he once again took to his father's advice- he buried his human understanding and took to the task at hand. He took his hands around the top rim of the chair, and dragged it down to his father, ever so carefully- even though he still managed to produce a horrid sound doing it.

"An older man? I've prepared the circle," his father said to him as he rounded the corner, his uncanny efficiency showing in how quickly he rearranged the furniture around the home and prepared the linen square adorned with the transmutation circle- a circle, inscribed within a square, inscribed within a triangle, inscribed within a circle. Dante rummaged through his pack and produced two halves to a brazier, and popped them together into place- placing it in the center of this circle.

"Place the man's had at the feet of the other, aligning with the triangle- for organization at least. Be careful at least, we do not want him to expire prematurely… We are lucky and both constrained in time that they are in the state they are." he began in one of his hasted lectures- a sign of his impatience for wanted the ritual to begin, "is this it?"

"There was one more room for me to check… I will return," Nikolai answered, doubling back to the closed door next to the study. Within, two beds- one empty and recently used, and the other still occupied; an occasionally coughing, shaking mass being its occupant. "One more," Nikolai shouted back, instead of stomping. The mass in the bed shook. He still maintained a degree of his consciousness. Once again swallowing his humanity, Nikolai wrapped the body with the blankets that covered him, and lifted the light and emaciated corpse over his shoulder- as was often the case with plague victims. He attempted to writhe and struggle in his grasp, but there was no strength in him to do anything.

"Align him with the triangle as well, please…" Dante asked once more as Nikolai brought the other ingredient to the circle, "this is it, I presume?" he asked before his son gave him a nod.

"Begin, please," Nikolai asked as he took his place at the side of his father.

"As you wish…" Dante replied, as he produced a vial from within his pack that leaned on the couch. Within the small vial faintly glowed a deep, crimson liquid. Carefully holding it with both hands, he brought it to the brazier, and uncorked it, tipping it over and pouring the panacea into the bowl, which had naturally bounced into a round shape. Already with the Stone's introduction, the circle sparked to life- prompting Dante stepping back and taking his place as actor.

"With this rot and death your vessels shall decay. To man, this is a representation of his mortal condition and only the stage that releases his soul. Your lives have not been wasted in effort here; they are used, not for your purpose but for the purpose of humanity," Dante began, holding his hands out before him, preparing to clasp his hands, "Do not fear."

Dante completed the circuit, and the transmutation commenced. The stone became enveloped in a radiant red light, and the corpses within the stone's radius disintegrated into red specks of energy and orbs of light, collecting into a vortex around its centerpiece.

The lives of human beings, someone who had once aspired to amount to something out of their lives; people who had their own interests and feeling only now reduced to a resource to be sought out and harvested. People who all have felt the cold, emotionless sting of death and that of the way of this world- who strove to cling to their families and communities to make an order out of this chaos.


	4. Chapter 3, Part 1

**An Introduction into the Outroduction. Those now exist. Chapter 3 will entail a series of events that eventually lead to this origin story and how the Stone got into Dante's hands (he was only adding onto the Stone, he hasn't actually created one). I must establish this: Eventually you'll see an origin story that mirrors a Father rip but with a more spiritualistic/philosophical spin to it- at this point, both universes are one and have yet to split. Prepare for a storm, this is just a flyer.**

In this world, there are two orders that one would find: that of instinct, and that of reason. Through instinct, life has been able to arrive at the point it has- a network that is in constant advancement towards a true equilibrium, a fight for balance at most to keep the flow of the anima mundi- the collective life essence of this planet- moving to inevitably bring reason.

With reason, man has been able to hold community. He has been able to leave the life of nomad, to settle a plain and raise a farm- a family. He has been able to observe the world instead of searching it. He has been able to find others of his kind, to either choose to band together or inevitably bring conflict. Even with our farms and our labor, our language and art, we find that we are, at our cores, animals who have developed a system.

Through this self-realization, the concept of our mortality is brought forth: We are still destined to follow the path of death, and to understand that our efforts will, one day, cease. We use this as a tool, to either bring death itself or to spread fear- adversion of death- amongst those of my own. From here, in the empires and kingdoms of man, we see tyranny.

Of course, as is a world constantly striving towards balance, death is not a thorn in the collective humanity. It is but a reminder of our short time. Of how one must do what they can now before what comes, does. Using the core of what we are- rational, reasoning beings- we are able to bring order to our sins and, when we possess the resources necessary, pursue the bounty of the world itself.

Through the reverence of the deities of man, we have found a rationalization of death- that through our lives and the understanding of the orders of the world, we shall be eventually rewarded in the afterlife, to eventually return to the world that had birthed us. Through this, we advanced upon it and brought question, philosophy, and most importantly, scientific understanding. A commentary of the old ways, as it were- evidence of a cycle that has yet to slow or show signs of fatigue. Evidence to show that we all, eventually, grow tired of our old ways and further seek something else.

In turn, our pursuit for philosophy and reason led us to, what we could have only believe it to be, the art of creation itself. Not of carpentry or masonry, but true creation. For the entirety of his existence, man has been ignorant- or perhaps blind- of the existence of the anima mundi before him. When he learned that- as a part of this system- he could interact with the construction of the world itself, he slowly came to true understanding of his place in this world. A device only to continue the cycle. To bring forth the next era of change. With this, man had changed. With this, came obsession.

The empire gave way to slavery. Here began the use of humanity as a resource- a commodity to be used en masse- to be used as a means to an end. These weren't individuals working for themselves or their family, they were slaves- no different than the tools they used, no different than the blocks they set in place. As man's civilizations developed, so did his hubris. He had eventually convinced himself that he could chisel the world as he see fit, whilst standing on a pedestal of bones and flesh.

Those who understood this understood truth- that even though that the individual human is aimless, we will find ruin unless we find community with more of ourselves. However, they also understood that this blind faith in humanity's willingness to commune will eventually lead to ruin; all it takes is one spark to light a match that constantly builds upon itself.


	5. Chapter 3, Part 2

**The beginning of the end of the beginning, and the beginning of the (figurative) end. The story of the first. **

In his earliest dabblings, alchemy was seen as a tool of sorcerers. They were able to bend materials to their will, conjure up shapes and tools from a shapeless mass, and even raise elaborate structures from the ground- from this, a sort of hubris developed; the alchemists began to alienate themselves from the collective humanity, viewing themselves more and more as creators- a rite reserved solely for God.

Man's faith had always explained the natural occurrences of the world, whether or not they were accurate to what really happened was irrelevant. For this art of creation (or at least, the modifying of creation), explanation was all but defined- most cultures who explored it extensively often distanced it from their religious rites, yet they still called it 'a tool of the gods'- something that should have been reserved to them, but somehow stumbled upon by mere humans.

Of these civilizations that indulged themselves of this art, great thinkers and philosophers progressed into old age as they gave their lives up- figuratively- to pursue what truths could be found. Those who had found success- those who had practiced in uncovering the thin veil between this world and the realm of God- returned only with madness and disfigurement. Their utterings still held some degree of comprehension, but they all had seen something that had twisted their wills into nothing and their psyche into a hollowed tree- despite their brokenness, they were highly regarded and revered for having transcended into a realm of being beyond this mortal plane. These men were regarded as sages.

As was the case with all wisened alchemists and philosophers, they only relayed their information to close students and kept most- if not all- of their records and archives hidden or in code. Because of this, the method for reaching and experiencing this plane was always achieved from nothing- requiring always one's fullest efforts to become a sage, keeping their numbers few and far between and tending to isolation rather than guilds and societies. Of these prospective sages who took to these practices, many took to the mountains and hills outside of their civilizations, still maintaining a link with them for subsistence purposes. These sages became hermits.

Of these hermits, many contemplated the world as it was and how they could modify the world to their interests. They sought means to meet their own ends, devices to simplify the work that they had already done. Because of this, many of them simply toiled in their caves and became rotted by even the simplest of questions. They spent too long asking why, and not enough actually acting on it. And for this, many were weak and only ended up in a hole deeper than where they could climb out. From alienating themselves from their collective man, these hermits only found dust and regurgitated thought. Very few had found anything worthwhile.

Of those who had found their truth, only one was able to escape relatively mentally unscathed- at the cost of his eyesight. He was a simple man with a simple desire: To understand the world and her ways on his own terms. He had felt alienated from his fellow man from the beginning- an observer to outside people with outside intentions, people irrelevant to him. He felt they all tried to think alike, to cling to other's notions as their own and follow blindly to their adopted philosophies. This man wanted to be his own person. He wanted to live at peace with himself.

From his studies and understanding of the world, the man found much to fill the empty library within his head. He took to travelling and observing what he could, taking note of the people there, taking note of their actions and what they did to survive. He saw the trees and vegetation of the lands, their clinging to vital sources of water, indicating untapped bounty to be nurtured. He saw a land ripe for man to populate and corrupt, a virgin land to be sewed with despair and neglect as a plague spread further. He found that with the spread of man, there came a spread of miasmic death. Because of this, he had abandoned man and took to the mountains, finding a cave to make his home; all in order to begin the unravelling of the library's worth he had collected within his head. When his bookcases were full the traveller had become an old and wisened, his age rendering him unfit to travel and trapped within this mountain. He was able to maintain a small crop enough to keep him fed, and largely took to gathering in between. He detested hunting, as he felt he was taking enough from the life around him as it was. He subsisted, and that was all he needed. He was in balance.

Of course, as is the case with humanity, his interests took hold of his intent and duty, and he soon felt longing for companionship- having taken the remainder of his days and invested them in a remote location far away from anything. He understood that even with his detesting of civilization, he loved humanity. He had understood that in his exploration for truth, he neglected to pursue that which civilization had sprung forth from: companionship. He was unable to sire a son, and unable to find a wife. He was too old to leave, yet what he had was a trove of everything that could be understood in the world. As an alchemist, he took his art and decided to transmute the self instead of transmuting the world- the first step into discovering Truth.

The man had found himself in a white void, floating gently in a warm, dream-like haze; the vision before him felt unreal and his movements were sluggish and bogged down, yet he felt awake in his own body- feeling his presence in his own head. Before him, a great towering oak tree and burrow beneath its roots. He tried to approach it, before a voice rang in his head.

_You are a man who desires to understand. Beyond that there is a desire for something else, is there not? A void to fill, something to complete?_

"Can you… Can you see what I desire?" the old man's voice croaked to life, his fears and thoughts all collecting on these words

_It is evident. What you seek is to be accompanied. To be given a shadow that you may show the world as you understood it._

"Then may I… May I acquire this? I am but a humble-"

_What you will be given must require a price. There cannot be something acquired by simple desire and will. It must require action. Sacrifice._

The leaves of the tree before him sprang to life as if a gust moved through them, and in the blackness of the tree's burrow a collection of eyes opened up to peer at their visitor. For a moment, the ambient dull ringing was interrupted by silence- and the sound of children laughing. The sage attempted to approach the tree once again, this time unhindered, and peered into this burrow. Within it, there was the shape of a child wrapped within a blanket. An infant. The silhouette of one- a featureless mass that only retained a shape.

_Your eyesight alone does not pay solely for this. The life you spent in the mountains, the time that you spent endlessly searching and studying. For this, you are given your companion to raise and teach. But know this, by receiving this in the manner you have, your gift will eventually adopt your perceptions and idealizations, and through this, ultimately become alienated from you. It will come to judge not only you, but the humanity you have come to love._


	6. Chapter 3, Part 3

**Here we shall find the Child of the Philosopher's beginnings. How he shall become fear. Prepare for a Sodom and Gomorrah-esque story.**

"This world is one that moves towards balance, yet it struggles against itself as it moves equally towards imbalance- there is only order because there is chaos. Balance can only be perceived, it is but a concept that exists to serve as a median between the one and the other. The north and the south."

It was lessons such as these that could satisfy the child's hunger- his only hunger- for a perspective of the world. Even in his brief infant stage- as his growth into an adolescent child took only a few weeks- he already possessed great knowledge of the truths of this world and the alchemy of man; a true child of the philosopher as it were. He was but an empty slate to be written upon. The child could only look on, absorb knowledge, exist as a retainer of such. Despite being regarded as his father's child, he possessed no features to identify him- he was but a shadow of what the philosopher desired- figuratively and literally- as his body was but a black mass. He was but a hollow shell of a human, neither possessing of personality or emotion. He could only ask a question, and recite what he had previously learned.

"This world's nature is one of instinct- to follow the primal desire of survival. With the arrival of humanity came the arrival of reason: both a tool in one hand as it is a weapon in the other, to be used to assure not only the means of our survival, but the expanding upon it- through this, we contemplate. We take in understanding of the world, as I relay mine to you."

"And so what did man achieve with his understanding?"

"Community. He saw that, as nature did so did he- he strove to pass on his knowings to his children, to continue a chain. To continue it so that he may eventually make something of his brief efforts, to instill his immortality not in his self, but within his family. His clan. His community."

"With this came civilization, didn't it?"

"Yes. It is both the grand achievement of man, as well as his doom- a part of the collective will for the advancement of a single ideal, to be but a splinter of the spoke of a wheel. He alienates himself from his being, giving it up for the welfare of the many; for this, he becomes stunted."

"Man then enslaves himself at the benefit of himself?"

"Because man loves himself. He sees the wasted potential in himself, and because of this, always strives for something larger that he can be a part of. We know that individual immortality will forever be out of reach- however- through the collective immortality we can ignore this, at the cost of their identity."

"So then, as reason came into play, it had only altered the state of things only so slightly?"

"What do you mean, my child?"

Before the child had replied, the philosopher's mind had fixated on the moment he claimed the child from under the tree- and the words that were spoken to him. A twinge of fear in his stomach arose as he awaited his answer.

"Reason serves as a substitute for instinct in man-to opposite extremes, it more or less completes the same objective."

"Yes, but each side is still at play in the minds of men. We are driven by instinct yet commanded by reason, a check the balance the other."

"If we are a system that must achieve balance, then where does humanity stand on this scale?" The one question that he needed. He understood the child's desire, and he could not bring himself to deprive him of that which he wanted the most. He could relate- to have the prime of his accomplishment before him, only to be abruptly stopped by a single obstacle.

"We are… a weight on the scale. An imbalance to the order of this world. That is the weight of our ability to reason, the drawback to our intellect. Because we possess the burden of knowing, we are corruptible, malleable, fragile."

It was this statement that ultimately stoked the child's desire to act as a third party observer; everything had adequately driven him to develop his own understanding of man and their part in the world we are born into. His aging father was already on the cusp of death, having already traded away his life for knowledge- a trove that would eventually be passed on to him, to use it as he saw fit. As an individual. From the beginning, however, the philosopher knew what would eventually become of his son after he would soon perish. His inquisitiveness matched the nature of his accelerated growth- already, he was, different. Already, he was, alienated from the world; as his father was, when he was younger.


End file.
